


All I Have is this Feeling Inside of Me

by That_Would_Be_Enough



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Anal, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon Era, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Teasing, but just a little bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 14:17:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12608504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_Would_Be_Enough/pseuds/That_Would_Be_Enough
Summary: And Alexander Hamilton couldn’t think of a sweeter distraction than John Laurens. In the moment following Laurens’ question he considered three things. First, the consequences of being caught in the act, of the fallout, of disappointing the General and losing all he had worked for. Then, he considered the noise from the storm, the strategic placement of their tent on the outskirts of the camp, the very low likelihood of anyone disturbing them. With his final consideration, the wonderful bliss of losing himself for a short while, of feeling familiar hands on his bare skin, of feeling wanted, he knew he had made the decision before the question was even asked.





	All I Have is this Feeling Inside of Me

The rain beat relentlessly on the outside of the tent, rough pounding of water on cloth filling Hamilton’s ears and drowning out the rest of the world. He forced his eyes to focus on the letter in front of him, the candle at his side flickering dangerously with each gust of wind. The words wouldn’t make their way from his brain to the page. Each time he started coming up with a coherent sentence, the rain would fall harder or the wind would whistle through camp again, and his mind would drift with it to storms on the island a long time ago. His mind flickered with thoughts of his mother, his brother, even some half-formed memories of his father. He couldn’t remember their exact faces, only small details. Hair color, deep eyes, the feeling of being held, vague memory of a soft, clean scent. He thought of the island, of the people there. Ruthless remarks about his parentage, alone and helpless when his mother was sick, but strangely moments of kindness scattered throughout those years as well. Moments of kindness like after the hurricane… 

He swore as a harsh gust of wind made its way into their tent, and the candle’s light died into darkness. His shaking fingers picked up another match, but the wet air and the breeze made it impossible to light. After several attempts, he threw the match back on his small writing desk and swore more loudly. 

A shifting noise in the cot behind him. He was reminded that, despite how isolated he felt in his mind, he wasn’t alone in the tent. “Hamilton? Are you still up?”

“I have one more letter to write for the general. Damn storm keeps blowing out the candle.”

“Alexander,” the voice said, a touch of softness tinting his tone, “it will be dawn before long. Come to bed.”

Hamilton gave an agitated sigh, but stood up and stretched, his back cracking in several places, sore from leaning over the desk for hours. “Might as well. I cannot write without any light. I’ll just have to wake up early and finish it before we’re expected for breakfast.” He crossed the small space to his own cot and climbed under the thin blanket. Without the candle next to him, he felt the cool air of the night seep into his body, making him shiver involuntarily. If he closed his eyes he could almost see the waves crashing up against the shore, the trees bending nearly in half with the force of the wind, the people rushing for shelter from the flooding. He could almost hear the screaming… 

“You work too hard.” Laurens’ voice from the other cot.

“There’s too much to be done not to,” he replied readily, voice more unsteady than he would have preferred. From inside the tent, they could see a sharp flash of light. Not long after, a harsh, booming crack of thunder drowned out all other noises. Hamilton tensed in his cot, his shoulders hunched inwards and arms drawn around himself in a protective fashion. In the moment that the thunder roared he couldn’t hear the rain, but he could hear the screams. He briefly wondered whether there had been any more hurricanes since he left. The moment stretched on too long, and just when he was starting to think something was wrong with his hearing the noise of rain on cloth came back. 

Across the cramped tent, he could just barely make out Laurens’ face, eyebrows pulled together in concern and a frown stretched across his lips. “Are you alright, Hamilton?” 

“Of course.” His voice was strained, and he hated that he could hear it in his tone, but not prevent it. 

“You…” he paused, unsure. “Well, you shouted just a moment ago.”

He swore again, under his breath. “Sorry. I’m not too fond of storms,” he admitted, the weight of insecurity pulling him down and making him regret the words as soon he uttered them. “It’s really not a problem, the thunder just took me by surprise is all.”

He heard the creak of the cot, then soft footsteps crossing the space between them. His body shifted as Laurens sat down on the edge of his cot, redistributing the weight. He was silent for a few minutes, but Hamilton didn’t mind it. He was used to the presence of the other man, while working and more intimately while they shared their tent. Having him there, so close, was calming in a sort of way that was hard to describe. He focused on the sound of Laurens’ soft breathing, and the noise from outside dulled a little bit in his mind. As he listened to Laurens, he matched the breaths with his own, and soon found his body relaxing out of its anxious state. 

“Alexander?” Hamilton loved the way his name sounded on those lips. 

“What is it?”

“Would it help if I distracted you?” There was hesitance in his voice, the question drawn out and unusually timid. 

It was an arrangement they had taken advantage of before. If anybody saw them, at best they’d be kicked out of the army. At worst, well, Hamilton didn’t like to think about that too much. Sometimes though, the risk was worth it. They both had their demons, painful memories. They were both suffering from being part of a military with too large an enemy and too few supplies, and they were both feeling the crushing stress of being part of the general’s staff, trying their hardest to improve what they could and often not getting much of anywhere. They both had dreams some nights where they would wake up with the biting reminder of loss and failure. Sometimes, distractions were necessary. 

And Alexander Hamilton couldn’t think of a sweeter distraction than John Laurens. In the moment following Laurens’ question he considered three things. First, the consequences of being caught in the act, of the fallout, of disappointing the General and losing all he had worked for. Then, he considered the noise from the storm, the strategic placement of their tent on the outskirts of the camp, the very low likelihood of anyone disturbing them. With his final consideration, the wonderful bliss of losing himself for a short while, of feeling familiar hands on his bare skin, of feeling wanted, he knew he had made the decision before the question was even asked. 

He reached out and tugged Laurens down to him, cramped on the small cot, but too grateful for his warmth to care. It was still dark, but with their faces so close to one another Hamilton could see the other man perfectly. Hamilton reached a hand out to run his fingers through Laurens’ curls, loose and falling over his shoulders. Encouraged by the small breath of pleasure he gave, Hamilton rolled onto his back, pulling Laurens along with him so that he was trapped underneath the other man, biting his lip as he gazed up into eyes the color of honey, darkened with night and desire and the strain of war. Hamilton made a conscious effort to store this moment away in his mind, to trace every line of his face with his eyes and commit it to memory the way he often did with important correspondence or supply lists. He was broken out of his silent study by Laurens leaning down to capture his lips in a kiss. It was practiced and familiar, and it felt like reassurance, and though Hamilton hadn’t had a real home to go back to for many years now, he was sure that reuniting his lips with Laurens’ is what returning home felt like.

He heard a crack of thunder in the distance. He must have missed the flash of lightning, being too blinded by the radiant figure in front of him. As Laurens pulled away from the kiss, he flashed a smile, looking truly happy in a way that he didn’t let show when they were out and about in the camp. Bright white teeth against skin turned golden brown from the sun, freckles danced across his face like the stars that were currently hidden behind storm clouds. Hamilton had tried counting those freckles during meals or meetings when he was too disinterested to pay attention to the conversation. He was good with numbers, but he knew it was a hopeless task trying to put a count to the limitless beautiful specks on his cheeks and across his nose and reaching up into his curls. He followed them now with his eyes, reaching down his neck and hidden behind his nightshirt. Hamilton leaned up on the cot, tugging the fabric aside and kissing at his collarbone. 

“I’ve missed you, Alexander,” Laurens whispered, letting one hand trace the side of his body, hand resting at the top of his breeches. “You get so distant when things are busy. We can be working in the same room, yet it feels as if you are hundreds of miles away.”

“My dear Laurens, don’t pout. You know how much I care for you.” He kissed his shoulder, sucking a faint mark into the skin. It would likely be gone by the next night. “You know as well as I that we are growing desperate for supplies and men. However right now, I am desperate for only one man.” He punctuated the statement with a teasing bite to his skin and relished in the small groan Laurens made. 

“You say that, yet you don’t seem so desperate, still wearing your breeches and day clothing,” he paused here to give Hamilton’s covered body a pointed look, “while I am in only my nightshirt.” A smirk was playing at the corner of his mouth, and Hamilton wanted nothing more than to wipe it right off his face with his own lips. “Perhaps you don’t want me in your bed after all.” He remained hovering over Hamilton, the previous sentence hanging like a threat in the air. 

Hamilton wrapped arms around his neck, fingers digging hard into the skin, a poor attempt at restraining him to the bed, to himself. “You know that’s not true,” he responded, flush beginning to color his cheeks. “You have witnessed many occasions where I have shown you just how much I appreciate your company in my bed. Perhaps if you want my clothes off so badly, you should take the initiative yourself.” 

“You know me too well.” With that Laurens pushed himself into an upright position to begin the work of unlacing his breeches. With attention suddenly near his cock, Hamilton felt desire stir low in his stomach, flooding out until every inch of him was alight with it. He sucked in a harsh breath when fingers brushed against the fabric there, teasing the beginnings of his erection. Hamilton had hoped for more, but instead Laurens moved up his body, grabbing the hem of his shirt and peeling it over his head. He could feel the heat of the gaze upon his bare chest, lightly muscled, if not a bit under-nourished. Watched as Laurens licked his lips, trailed his eyes from his shoulders to ribs, and down to his unlaced breeches. For as many problems as the war gave him, Hamilton had to admit it had helped in him in certain ways. He had opportunities to climb the ranks, his body was in better shape than it ever had been, and he had met many amazing friends. He was very thankful for two of those things at that very moment, as John Laurens eyed him like a Christmas feast. 

Hamilton cleared his throat, raising his hips slightly in his impatience. Laurens took the hint easily, moved back down his body and tugged the breeches off of him, followed by his stockings. He cocked an eyebrow at the other man, gooseflesh raising on his newly revealed skin. “You seem a bit overdressed, my dear.” Laurens cracked a smile at that, and oh god how Hamilton loved that smile, eyes squinting and skin stretched over freckled cheeks as he flashed those gorgeous teeth. Hamilton wanted to part them, wanted to explore that mouth, wanted to get lost and never find his way back out. Then Laurens was pulling off his nightshirt, and as proud as Hamilton was of his newly gained muscles, he knew he could never compare to the lovely sight in front of him. John Laurens was better than any of the expensive paintings that he assumed would hang on the walls of his father’s house in South Carolina. How could an artist capture such perfection with paints and a brush? 

Laurens licked his lips again and the small gesture had fire racing through Hamilton’s veins. “Please,” he managed through the fog in his brain. “I need you. Need to lose myself in the sweet pleasure of your body. Need you to help me feel.” Laurens obliged, as he always did when Hamilton asked. He shifted onto his feet, then dropped to knees at the end of the cot, urging Hamilton towards him with a gentle tug on his thigh until he was resting with legs spread open, hanging off the edge of the cot and giving Laurens wonderful access. His mind briefly flashed to the laws and society’s rules about things such as this. He almost felt panic rise in him, panic over him and Laurens, and right and wrong, and whether any good could really come of a situation like this. The panic was never able to boil over because at that moment John Laurens took his cock in his mouth, tongue wet and warm, working him over until he was melting like liquid gold, molten, skin on fire with the pure heat of it. He moaned softly, feeling his body react to the bliss of John Laurens’ throat, feeling the waves of pleasure roll over him again and again as his tongue found new spots to touch, new ways to please. His hands were gripping his own thighs, nails digging into his skin in an attempt to ground himself, an attempt not to scream out Laurens’ name at the top of his lungs and alert the entire camp to their activities. Laurens brought one hand up to cup his balls. Hamilton brought one hand up to bite his own knuckle, stifling the moan that threatened to escape. Laurens glanced up at him, lashes thick and mouth full of cock, and he hummed in pleasure. Hamilton gave another muffled groan, the vibrations sending sparks through his body. “You will be the death of me, sweet Laurens,” he gasped out, trying and failing to keep his voice even. “And the death of yourself too if you continue to draw such noises from me.” Hamilton felt those wonderful, wet lips slide off his cock with “pop”, hand still massaging his balls. 

“Would you like me to stop?” The question was innocent enough, but Hamilton could see the mischief in his eyes, his voice teasing and threatening all at once. 

“Nothing would disappoint me more.” He glanced down at the eager man between his legs, skin rosy with flush, lips slicked with saliva, and curls a wild mess around his face. “However, it is quite cold up here in the cot without your body heat. Would you join me?”

Laurens rose to his feet and took the opportunity to gently push Hamilton back into the cot so he was trapped once again, strong arms boxing him in. Hamilton appreciated the way his muscles flexed with the effort of it. Could stare transfixed at the wonders of his body for hours. He was quite sure there was no poetry in the world that could accurately phrase how beautiful John Laurens looked when he was naked, stretched tight and eager above him, with those goddamn gorgeous arms supporting his weight. He leaned down for another kiss, and Hamilton lifted his head as much as the position would allow to meet his lips and dive into the sensations that his mouth never failed to bring. 

After several minutes of kisses and exploring each other’s bodies with light brushes of fingertips, Hamilton wriggled out from Laurens’ hold on him so he could roll them over, flip their positions so he rested on top of the other man. He leaned into his bare neck and began peppering his skin with small kisses and bites. As he moved lower, back to his collarbone, Hamilton gripped the skin between his teeth and sucked just hard enough to elicit a tiny gasp from Laurens. “Be careful,” he hissed above him, a hand moving to press against the tender skin. 

“You know I’ve never been good with careful,” Hamilton replied, cheeky grin illuminating his features. “I much prefer being reckless.” He added another small nip to the skin, right next to where Laurens’ fingers rested. “Reckless, but not stupid,” he added, moving back up his body to trace the shell of his ear with his tongue. “I would never risk anyone finding out about this because of something so careless,” he whispered breathlessly in his ear, pleased when he felt Laurens shiver beneath him. 

Unable to resist any longer, he shifted and pushed at Laurens’ thighs until he was situated between his legs. He took in the sight below him for a moment, another one he wanted to commit to memory, John Laurens tense and waiting, chest rising and falling, and legs spread with his heavy cock nearly dripping between them. He traced the shape of it with his fingers, reveling in the small whimpers he caused. He let his hand fall lower, kneading the flesh of his ass, humming in appreciation at the firm, rounded muscle he felt underneath. “Please,” John panted below him. “Alexander, you’ve kept me waiting long enough. I need more.”

Hamilton breathed out a quiet laugh and flashed him a smile. He bit his lip as he contemplated his next move. “I didn’t take you as one to beg.” He grinned at the flush coloring Laurens’ cheeks and spreading down his neck. “I’ve always known you were impatient, but the begging is new.”

Their eyes met for a brief moment before Laurens turned his head to the side and squeezed his eyes shut. “Alexander, stop teasing-” His sentence was cut off as Hamilton leaned down, face between his legs, hot breath on his thighs, and then teeth, once again sucking, biting, probably harder than was wise but if Laurens realized he didn’t protest this time. He continued until the man below him was squirming, hands gripping the sides of the cot. Satisfied with his handiwork, Hamilton reached underneath his cot, shuffling through his things until he found a small bottle of oil. He slicked his fingers with practiced ease and brought one to rub circles around Laurens’ opening. He tensed at the touch, then relaxed in increments, eventually allowing Hamilton to push the first finger inside to the knuckle. He brought his other hand to his own cock, stroking slowly while listening to the small whines and moans he drew from Laurens as he slid his finger out, then back in, working it deeper with every thrust. When he added the second finger, Laurens cursed, the stretch of it lighting his insides on fire. 

“My dear Laurens, you are a work of art when you’re falling apart like this.” Hamilton licked his lips, hungry. 

“Need more,” he panted out, pushing back to try to get those fingers deeper inside of him. “Please, Alexander, god damnit I’m ready.” 

“Are you sure? You feel ever so tight. I’m afraid I may break you.”

“Hamilton, you know I’m not that fragile. I don’t care if it stings, please just give yourself to me.” The look on his face, a strange mixture of desire, defiance, irritation, and impatience, finally persuaded Hamilton. He slid his fingers out in one swift motion, and Laurens whined at the loss, jerking his hips up in a useless gesture to get more stimulation. Hamilton grabbed the bottle of oil again, slicking his own length and letting out a sigh of relief at the prospect of what was to come. He took hold of Laurens’ legs, pushing them up and back and adjusting the angle to make his entry easier. He gave himself a few more strokes, taking the moment to glance over Laurens’ body once again. He was practically vibrating with need, taut muscles holding himself in position and a thin sheen of sweat covering his body. His energy reminded Hamilton of fire, always burning, crackling, popping. Flames threatened to consume him as he got lost in the heat, and Hamilton figured it wouldn’t be a bad way to go. 

He lined himself up, the head of his cock pushing against reluctant flesh. “Relax,” Hamilton said, one hand moving down to massage his ass, the other pressing into the bottom of his thigh. He could feel muscles loosening, letting him in, so he pushed forward another inch, pausing to allow Laurens time to adjust. Slowly, he continued, pushing until the base of his cock was pressed against Laurens’ ass. The man below him groaned, the sound muffled by the fist in his mouth. “How does it feel?” 

“Good,” Laurens responded, his voice coming in short gasps. “So damn good. Now stop treating me like a damn maiden and fuck me.”

With a smirk, Hamilton took a tighter grip of his thighs, allowing Laurens to wrap his legs behind his back, and began to thrust, picking up the pace quickly until he built a steady rhythm of skin slapping against skin, biting his lip to stop himself from yelling out when Laurens clenched around him just so. He thanked the heavens for the pouring rain, which had been irritating him to end earlier that night. It gave the perfect cover for the noises of his thrusts and the sounds coming from both of their mouths. He allowed himself to fall into the pleasure, to forget about the war and his work, his pain and his past, to forget about every misfortune that had been dropped upon him in his whirlwind of a life. For the moment, it was just him and John Laurens, and he thought if he could somehow freeze the rest of the world and just live the rest of his life like this, then maybe everything would be okay. 

He was shaken out of his own thoughts by a low moan. Laurens had his hand on his own cock now, pumping himself to the same rhythm Hamilton had set. The sight was an erotic one, his eyes closed, lips parted and panting out short breaths, curls a mess around his face, a few of them stuck to his forehead with sweat, muscles tight like stretched rubber, ready to snap. Hamilton increased his pace, drawing another whimpering moan from Laurens and letting out his own in return. The tight heat around him, the friction, it was all so wonderful, so incredibly blissful. He felt the world around him fade away as his body tightened, his entire being nothing but sparks, shooting stars, ecstasy. He held himself in as far as he would fit as he spilled his release, relishing in the slow, fuzzy way his brain came down from the high. He pulled out slowly, finally noticing Laurens, still stroking his cock, still hard. 

He batted the hand away, falling forward on hands and knees and taking his cock deep into his throat. Encouraged by the low groan, he bobbed his head up and down, exhaustion slowing him more than he would have liked. He could tell Laurens was close. Pre-come was leaking from the tip, salty on his tongue, and his cock was full and heavy, providing a challenge to maneuver in his mouth as Hamilton did his best to use his tongue and lips in ways he knew would drive Laurens to the very edge of pleasure. He appreciated the small, helpless noises the other man made, and he once again made a point to commit the moment to memory. He heard Laurens’ breathing speed up, and a hand reached down to twist fingers into his hair, urging him on, frantic for release. With renewed effort, Hamilton sucked hard, hollowed his cheeks, creating as much friction as he could, and then took his cock deep into the back of his throat once again, approaching the task of John Laurens’ cock with the same determination and fervor he put into all his other projects. The tightness, the heat, the way Hamilton’s throat fluttered and closed around his cock just so, it was all more than enough to have Laurens tipping over the edge, spending himself deep inside Hamilton’s throat with the most satisfied groan. Hamilton did his best to swallow every drop around the cock shoved far down his throat. He waited until Laurens stilled to finally pull off, making a show of swallowing one final time and wiping his lips on the back of his wrist. 

When he was satisfied he had completely tired the other man out, Hamilton pulled his nightshirt over his head and laid back down on his cot. He pulled the blanket up to cover them and curled one arm around Laurens, tugging him in close, appreciating both the warmth of his body, blood still pulsing quick beneath his skin, and his company. “Thank you,” he whispered by his ear, settling his face against broad shoulders and kissing the freckles there. 

Still coming down from the heights of his own ecstasy, Laurens merely nodded in response, letting out a small noise of agreement. They lay there for a few more minutes, sated and content, only the sounds of slow breathing and harsh rain filling the tent. Eventually, Hamilton’s thoughts began to blink back into existence, his mind filling, one at a time, with worries and ideas and memories. He became more aware of the chill of the night air and the wind whipping against the tent outside, and couldn’t help but notice the gooseflesh rising on the skin beneath him. “You’ll become sick if you don’t put your nightshirt back on and cover yourself properly.” Laurens let out a low whine next to him, reluctant to remove himself from the warmth and comfort of his current position. “John,” he said, gentleness tinging his words in a way that was unusual even to his own ears. “Come on now, you need to get up. We both know this cot isn’t big enough for one man let alone two.”

With a grunt, he pulled himself out from under the cover and stood, the night air making him shiver. Hamilton drank in the sight of him, dark and beautiful in the dim glow of night that comes sometime just before dawn. He ran his eyes across broad shoulders, brushed by curls hanging in a wild, yet somehow attractive mess from his head. Let his eyes trail down his back, muscles flexing in a way that had his mouth watering as he lifted his arms and stretched. Next, they fell upon the perfect curve of his ass, round and tight and more awe-inspiring than any other natural wonder in the world. Too soon, he was grabbing his nightshirt from where he had discarded it on the floor of the tent earlier, shaking off the dirt and pulling it back over his head. Laurens turned around, glancing at Hamilton, at the spot next to him, with longing in his eyes before returning to his own cot and pulling his blanket up to his chin. “You don’t think anyone heard…?” The question was just above a whisper, filling the air in the tent like a heavy weight, crushing both of them with the unspoken words behind that question. 

“No.” Hamilton’s voice had more assurance than he felt, but the logical part of his brain supplied all the proper arguments to tell him it was true. “The storm is loud. Rain on the outside of the tent makes it almost impossible to hear anything outside your own sleeping quarters. Besides, no one burst in on us. What proof could they have? They heard some strange noises? Impossible to prove anything.”

“But proof is only necessary if you’re trying to convict someone. Suspicion can still ruin a man’s life if spread to the right people.”

Hamilton hummed in agreement. It was the same argument that drove him to anxiety when he wondered whether another man’s disapproving look was a coincidence or not. “Don’t worry about that now. No one knows a thing, and worst comes to worst your father is president of the Continental Congress and you work directly under General Washington. I don’t think they’d let harm come to you. Probably attempt to cover it up in whatever way they deemed necessary.”

It was almost like a game. Every time they slept together, every time they engaged in acts of pleasure, it was followed by the same panic, the same overplayed lines of reassurance, the same glazing over of uneasiness. They would wake up in a few hours, play off their tiredness as being overworked, and go about their duties as always. One of them would perhaps sit a little more gingerly than normal on his chair. There may be one or two lingering glances that couldn’t be stifled. Then things would fall back into their regular pattern. 

“Alexander?” There was something different in Laurens’ tone here, and Hamilton had the distinct feeling that they were done with their previous conversation.

“Yes?”

“Why do storms bother you?”

Hamilton thought back to the island. Waves consuming entire villages. Flooding filling up homes. Resulting sickness. Hunger. Death. 

“Not tonight, Laurens.” He turned over in his cot, facing the wall of the tent with an air of finality. Once his face was hidden, his façade crumbled the tiniest bit. Even here, in the intimacy of their tent with only himself and his closest friend in the world, he couldn’t recount the events of his childhood. Couldn’t let any of them know the life he really came from. He couldn’t take the rejection of those who would judge him for it, use it against him. He swallowed down the emotions and turned his mind back to more recent events. He forced himself to think of the new memories he had created tonight, finally letting himself be pulled into the uneasy depths of sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Please leave comments/kudos <3
> 
> Come talk to me on Tumblr @ilovefoodandgirls


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